


For These Dead Birds

by Shiggityshwa



Series: Watch the Birdie [15]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Dealing With Loss, Episode: s10e13 The Road Not Taken, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Ori, Pre-the road not taken, dark au, loss of a child, orici
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:22:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29513145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiggityshwa/pseuds/Shiggityshwa
Summary: An imagined retelling of Season 9 and 10 in the 'Road Not Taken' universe. Fifteenth in an ongoing series detailing what happened in the The Road Not Taken universe before Sam's arrival. Focuses Cameron's fall from grace and Vala's incarceration at Area 51. This story deals with trying to integrate back into Earth society.
Relationships: Vala Mal Doran/Cameron Mitchell
Series: Watch the Birdie [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1183454
Comments: 5
Kudos: 6





	1. Against the Owl

They don’t heal immediately, but they do heal naturally.

Start to connect on a base-level instead of through shared trauma.

Stop tiptoeing around each other so much and start to actually have genuine conversations about what she’s reading and whether she likes the story or not, it doesn’t really matter though because she’ll read anything. 

Apparently, literacy was a rare trait for women on her home world. 

She lays against him as they watch historical documentaries, asking him questions, still not fully understanding the concept of television, of what’s true and what’s fake. He’s tried to explain the rating system to her, to let her know that some programs are for kids, and some have violence, and some are just fantasy.

She doesn’t understand that everything seen on the tv is fake to a certain extent, and so she thinks there are really wizards and mutants out running around—that there are really men beating each other in wrestling rings, that there are giant yellow birds who have equally giant imaginary friends.

When he tries to explain the concept to her, she then thinks that everything is fake, that there is no wrestling ring and no audience, that the news about car crashes, terrorist threats, and natural disasters is cooked up in the same fashion as the monster movie of the week.

So, when he watches a documentary on World War II and she asks the inevitable question about how real the information is, he has to sit there and explain to her what happened. He has to use his laptop to look up specific questions she asks that the film doesn’t answer. Has to hold her while she weeps because of such a loss of life.

After that he only watches historical stuff when she’s asleep, or when she’s in one of her memory lapses and has locked herself in the bathroom—he always makes sure there’s nothing in there that can hurt her. He always has an extra key on him that he never uses out of respect for her, even though he keeps waking at night and finding her isolating herself in the shower.

She always plays it off as waking up with a hot flash, something hormonal in the lapse of what the SGC did to her—something he still doesn’t know the extent of.

He thinks it’s the only place she can go to cry alone, so he tries to not pry.

She’ll talk when she wants to.

For their first Independence Day together, only a month after they move in together, they have a picnic in the backyard, mainly because he doesn’t know if being around all the people at the park cookouts would make her uneasy. She’s said before that she doesn’t like crowds, and as much as he wants to set out a blanket and camp out with her while huge blooms of fireworks dance across the sky, watch her as she stares at them with wonder, as their designs burst vibrantly across the pitch black and reflect in her eyes, he thinks it’s best to stay at home for this one.

As much as he wants to offer her all the freedom he can, they need to be safe about this.

The SGC has been anything but forthcoming concerning her, and he would love to know that she can walk around the block by herself, in peace. Would love to teach her how to drive—she’s very astute at flying, so she’ll probably pick it up immediately, but then she would have to get a license somehow and they’re still waiting for her doctored birth certificate to get mailed to them.

Hates how she has to stay cooped up in the house when he leaves to start his new job as an expert on military operations for film and tv. Thought it was going to be hard to find a job after the SGC—not that they would black ball him, but he knows a few guys, his old man included, who found it hard to work after leaving the military because nothing was the same.

In his last conversation with his dad, they talked about how leaving the military was like coming out of prison with everything changed around them—that they have access to all this information people who lead normal lives have no idea about.

It’s a large burden to bear, and his dad carried it for as long as he could.

Once they were settled, he called his mom to her about going down for a big Thanksgiving. Usually, she flies out west to have Thanksgiving with his aunt, but he’s hoping if he gets to her early enough, that he’ll be able to convince her to do the home cooking for once.

Part of him is excited to introduce her to Vala, to show her the woman he loves so much, but part of him knows she’s going to ask about grandkids. That she’s going to ask where Vala is from, what her job is, and they need to be on the same level to answer the questions. They need to rehearse all the way to Auburn to ensure there’s no hesitation in her answers to make anyone suspicious.

But that can’t happen yet because sometimes she’s barely herself.

He’s seen her—when she thinks that he’s not home, or she’s alone—grind her teeth and ball her fists like she’s trying to suppress a rage, like she’s remembering everything that’s happened to her, and he wishes winter would get here already so he can take her for a stroll in the park like he promised.

They go at night instead, when the lamplit paths glow a welcoming yellow haze and the June bugs swirl around the bulbs. He attempts to make small talk, asks what she did at the house all day while he was gone consulting on a soon to be blockbuster smash—maybe he’ll take her to see it, if she can navigate fantasy from reality by then.

She talks about the books she read, about the tv she tried to watch before growing bored and fatigued. The nap she took.

He realizes that she’s living on Ver Isca again. That she can’t leave the house without him. That she’s resolved to doing chores to keep herself busy and he hates it, because he wants her to be stimulated, to think and solve and laugh and grow.

They’re sitting at the small dining table one night, silently eating dinner when he glances up at her, the way her fork scratches against the bottom of the plate while she mostly just pushes her food around. He wants to ask her if she’s still enjoying Earth. If she ever did. If she regrets everything that’s happened in the last two years.

Wonders if she would leave Earth if she could.

He wipes his mouth with a napkin, still keeping hold of the beard he had the entire time she was restrained in the brig. He could never be bothered to shave it, and now bits of food keep getting stuck in it.

“That was really good.”

“I just followed the directions on the back of the package.” She stands, her chair groaning over the laminate floor, and starts collecting the dishes on the table, that at the most can seat four.

He knows that cooking on any other planet she’s been on was more complicated—the make bread from scratch type of complication he could never get the hang of, maybe it makes her a better cook here because it’s usually just heating stuff up on the stove.

Wants to know where she learned to cook—from her mom? And how—was it out of necessity? Was it after she got married?—mentioned she had been before.

But he knows she won’t answer his questions.

Maybe she just values the privacy of her unshared memories—since it feels like they do everything together—maybe she just wants to keep something for herself.

Maybe she doesn’t want to dredge up the bad memories she’s kept buried for a reason.

He keeps sitting, just watching her squeeze dish soap in the sink and turn the spray of water on until the suds start to rise. Dropping the dishes in and starting to scrub, but that’s when he sees it—the slight fall of her shoulders, the way her body leans harder into washing a dish, a cup that only had water in it. The way she stares out of the window above the sink and into the backyard trying to keep a reign on her emotions.

Usually after work, she insists that he has a shower or relaxes while she cleans up. Doesn’t know if it’s to get rid of him or because she’s still following the Ver Isca social cues, but even when they were stuck in that backwards place, they never really did follow the rules.

She might do it for more time alone, solitary—without him needling in—asking her what she’s doing when she runs her hands— hooked fingers—through the already full flower beds in the backyard, and she halts her action, rarely ever explaining a thing to him.

He doesn’t know what’s going on inside her head. He never really did, but he knows that it’s not his job to. They love each other—that doesn’t mean that they read each other’s minds. It doesn’t even mean they read each other’s emotions. It just means that whenever one of them is acting differently—is silently calling out for help—the other accepts this and helps in whichever way they can.

Knows she does this for him when they have sex.

Doesn’t know if she’s frightened because of what happened with their daughter, or frightened because of what happened with Lorne, or Anubis, or Ba’al.

Just knows that he shows his love physically, and she shows it in the sacrifices she makes.

Told her that if she didn’t enjoy—if she didn’t want to—that they didn’t need to, but she kept kissing him—he wants it to feel like it used to—not like a task but like a pleasure. Touching her is the only form of solace he gets.

They took his daughter, but they didn’t take his wife.

His chair doesn’t make so much as a groan when he stands from the table, although, he does, his legs still a little wobbly, not from having to support himself, but from the pain in his back.

In the morning it’s hard for him to get on his pants, and he feels much older than he is.

The sounds of her hands submerging in the sudsy water echoes through the room like a brook, and he sidles up beside her, feels her tense as his arms slide around her waist, and he hugs her to him, holds her in his arms, until the tenseness lessens, until her hands breech the dish water.

Until her shoulders slump forward, and she starts to silently cry.

Then outwardly sob.

He loosens his grip on her, allowing her to flip, her head nestling against his chest, the water from her hands seeping through his shirt and licking his skin as he holds her.

He doesn’t say anything, because again, he doesn’t know what to say.

He doesn’t know what’s bothering her or how he can help other than showing her he’s not going to judge her for having a breakdown, or for needing to go into the backyard and put her fingers and toes in fresh toiled dirt.

Once he found her underneath the kitchen table, and the thought she might have been in distress, but she told him flat out that she just needed to be under the table to calm down and somehow he understood exactly what she meant.

He grabbed his mug of coffee from the counter, and carefully tried not to spill it as he squatted down, leaning against one of the kitchen chairs. He slapped a hand to the top of the table, grabbing the paper, and did his morning reading on the ground beside her—not acknowledging her in any way but his presence.

Thinks that maybe she reacts better to passive support than active.

“Birdie.”

Withdraws slowly from her, trying not to be judgmental, but not understanding the importance behind the single word. Turns a bit to check out the kitchen window, thinks that maybe songbirds have found their way into the newly cultivated backyard—he tried to have everything ready to make what he thought would be a perfect house, tried to think of everything she would want done—he wanted done—because this house was built with the blood of their daughter.

So, he had the backyard landscaped, bright green grass mowed to perfection—it almost has that checkerboard pattern, something he’s never been able to perfect no matter how hard he tries—there’s edging and stones, and bright flowers—specifically told them bright flowers because he knew she’d have to be corralled here most days, and he wanted her to have something to look at, to examine.

Turns out she was more interested in the dirt.

There are no songbirds flitting around outside the kitchen window, on the patio, or even re-enacting a game of chess on the perfect grass. There’s nothing outside but a high humid wind that’s jangling the neighbor’s chimes wild. At first it was refreshing, to have such a docile, familiar sound to keep him in the present—let him know where he is—but now it’s verging on irritating. He’s never realized how windy it was here before.

“I don’t see any?” Tries to get her talking even if the backyard is completely empty—completely fake. Maybe he should take everything out and let her help him make it. Maybe by trying to make this easier for her, he’s actually made it worse. “Did you hear them?”

“No—” shakes her head and her skin is an interesting color now that he’s this close to her in the daylight, usually he only sees her in the industrial lights, the luminescent, energy-saving bulbs shoved into every socket. Her skin was always pale, sometimes gray, and pallid, but now carries a golden tone, a sparkle, something he can’t define. “No.”

“Well, maybe they flew—”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh—what did you mean?”

“Birdie—I—” she pauses, and it’s unnatural. Not in the rhythm of her regular speech but falling between the parsing of her words. It sounds like she’s trying to catch her breath, trying to recover from running or jogging. She draws her eyes back from where she’s been staring over his shoulder—around him, through him—locking on to him before dropping, sliding to the window again. “I named her Birdie.”

He cocks an eyebrow, unsure if her memory is failing her again. If she’s reliving something from when she was Qetesh or before when she was last free. Maybe as a child she had a pet or a toy with the name, but he was sure he introduced her to the word, because he remembers explaining the difference between a bird and birdy.

“Who did you name—”

His mind is so busy trying to fit pieces into slots, trying to make everything look nice—appear perfect—when beneath they’re both struggling to breech the turmoil, that he doesn’t realize who she’s talking about.

Who they both shared.

His voice disappears, and the rocking motion he’s adopted to comfort her stops ridged in his legs. He keeps told of her, but his eyes are wide, like words not meant to be uttered were said, like they’re talking about the one taboo subject that the government hasn’t even given them clearance to discuss.

“You named her Birdie?”

She nods, her chin against his shoulder, but he can feel her breathing start to hitch, she grows hot under his hands, against his chest.

“Why?”

Knows why.

It’s taken almost three months to get to her to speak about what happened in this abstract of a manner, and he wants to keep her talking for as long as she can, because no professional is ever going to help her deal with the pain, with the trauma.

Nothing is going to make the ache in each word she says go away, until they can both learn to cope with it.

“Because—” Her voice cracks, and she clears her throat, still not wanting to look at him, still staring out vacantly over his shoulder. “She loved their songs.”

There’s a deeper meaning under her words. One that he understands—that the birds were free when they never were. That their daughter danced to wild bird chirrups is one of the only things they will ever know about her.

“I—I think—” The pull of the muscles in her face flicks against his neck as she narrows her eyes, seeking, searching for something.

Words, a memory, a feeling, an answer.

“What do you think?” Guides her slowly because memories are a murky and dangerous place for her. He knows next to nothing because that’s what she wants him to know and that’s what he has to be comfortable with.

“They let me hold her.”

He stiffens again, willing his body not to react to the words, to the idea that they will never assuage. Counting fingers. Counting toes. Counting eyelashes. He wants to know everything about how she looked, how she sounded, how she felt.

He can’t have what he wants, but he can live vicariously through a memory.

“She had the smallest tuft of black hair.”

He laughs, but it’s pained, it’s silent, as he leans his face into her hair, the same hair their daughter had.

“Her skin was very soft.—just so—very soft.” Her voice decorates his skin in puffs of air, like every bad experience she’s ever had in her life has been chasing her, and she’s finally stopped to catch her breath. “I could see the blue of her veins underneath—I tried to memorize every aspect about her, because I knew one day I would have to tell you—”

“You don’t have to say any more right now.” Wants her to feel comfortable, but all the hard emotions he had, all the regret, the fear, the despondence, numbs in his body at her words.

How he’ll never even get to see his only child.

“I—I think she had your eyes.” She nods against his chest as if to offer herself the affirmation. “I—never got to see them, but it’s just something I know—”

“She would’ve been a heartbreaker.”

“She was beautiful, Cameron.” Finally, she looks at him as the nostalgia takes her over, her eyes chirpy and bright, her arms dropping from around him, the speed of her speech kicks up, excited to bond with him “Both her feet fit into the palm of my hand. She had perfect little toes with perfect toenails—” as holds her hands out, mimicking the actions she took with their daughter—but her story stops, her hands slowly descending, and when she gazes back at him, her eyes have glassed over again.

“She was cold, Cameron. She was so very cold—”

“Come here.” Pulls her back against him as she starts to sob again, quaking against his chest. He wraps an arm around her neck, holding her, crying with her. His cheek piling against her hair, clasping on to her, until her cold hands, raise and encircle his neck, until her hyperventilating stops, until she calms as the sun sets a brazen orange through the kitchen window, shrouding the kitchen in shadows.


	2. In Everlasting Fire

Has a nightmare—doesn’t remember about what or who—just knows the swirling emotions, the lump of dread at the back of his throat that he can’t swallow, how when he wakes he actively seeks her out for familiar comfort.

But she’s thrashing in the bed next to him.

“Vala—” he reaches out to steady her, so she doesn’t hit the corner of the bedside table, or fall off onto the floor, and wrenches his hand back.

Her skin is hot—smoldering like a low ember—the sheets are sticking to her with sweat.

She has to have a fever, and his panic offsets his concern because there’s no way he can take her to a hospital without them finding out she’s an alien.

He also won’t take her back to the mountain for them to use as a punching bag anymore.

He doesn’t know what to do.

“Vala!” Shakes her, hard, harder than he means to, but the panic is palpable—he starts to salivate more, and he might be sick.

He’s not going to take her back to that place.

Then, under his hand crisping against her skin, she starts to glow.

At first, he thinks it’s the light from outside playing over her, maybe a car driving down the street throwing its headlights over the wall, but then it gets brighter—orange, like the sunset—glittering over her skin.

“Vala!”

Her eyes open, yellow, red, orange, engulfed briefly in flames before she notices him, his hands cementing her head in place so she can’t look away from him—her breathing calms, her chest relaxing, and her hyperventilating settles.

Wants to ask what the hell is going on—he knew something was going on with her, just thought it was normalized trauma from the loss of a child—didn’t think she was lighting up like a bonfire at night, her body soaked in sweat, almost steaming under the sheets.

Wants to ask what this is—if it’s a manifestation of the same rage and fear and despair he’s been feeling.

Or something else.

Did the SGC do something to her?

Hell, this could just be something that naturally happens to her people, and he hasn’t been with her long enough to experience it yet.

But when she recognizes him, the slight smile on her face cracks and she appears horrified. She sobs loudly, drowning out any other sounds in the room, the windchimes from next door dancing through the curtains, the drip from the ensuite sink, the creaking of the settling house.

He holds onto her as the sobs rake through her body. Doesn’t say a damn thing or ask a single question, because whatever is happening doesn’t need his attention as much as she does right now.

“It’s okay—Tells her, although he doesn’t believe it himself.” Pets a hand over her hair, pulls her more against him so she’s half in his lap. Her shirt is stuck to her back, and her skin still carries the echo of that heat he saw behind her eyes. “Whatever this is—it’s gonna be okay.”

She shakes her head, gulping down air and then closing her mouth like she’s trying to hold her breath. “It’s not, Cameron.”

“It will be—”

“It’s bad.”

“Honey—” he chuckles wryly “—all we get is bad.”

“This is worse.” Purses her lips, pushing away from him, still vehemently shaking her head in disagreement. The night shirt she wears sticks to the backs of her thighs as she scrambles, aiming for the bathroom.

He bolts up faster and gets to the ensuite door before her, blocking her way. “Is that why you’re always in there every night—”

“Cameron—”

“Jesus, Vala, how long has this been going on?”

But the stiffness, the readiness in her muscles to fight him—and she could definitely take him if she wanted, and not just because he wouldn’t fight back—fades in defeat, her arms limp at her side. “They’re going to take me away again, Cameron.”

“No, they’re not.”

“Yes, they—”

“I won’t let them.” His hand covers her bicep, draws her eyes up from the floor and to face him again. “You know I won’t let them.”

“This is out of our control.”

“What is?”

“They’re going to find me, and they’re going kill me.”

The words wrench his heart.

She’s not thinking clearly, because every single time she did something ‘wrong’ on this planet, they took it out on her body.

They took it out on her mind.

“Vala—just.” He can’t promise that it won’t happen again, because of how many times he’s let her down. How many times they’ve taken her from him and buried her like treasure. How he went on the hunt every time, finding her just a bit too late to assuage any of the pain she felt. “What’s going on?”

Her eyes flicker as she stares at him, red-rimmed lids, and a sheen of sweat still misted on her skin. There’s a brief narrowing of her eyes, a subtle check of his sincerity, and it hurts that she doesn’t just tell him.

“The Ori.”

“The Ori?” The word still feels foreign exiting his mouth. He hasn’t thought about them for ages—about the trials they went through trying to blend in in that simple, little, brainwashed village. “What about them?”

“They’re coming for me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title borrowed from Shakespeare's Titus Andronicus


	3. For the Poor Wren

They go out—pretend that nothing happened that morning—that she didn’t almost self-immolate in the bed next to him. Wants to be gentle with her, give her the time she needs, coax the truth out of her with love—but she said it had to do with the Ori.

She saw massive armies and fleets of ships powering on to greet her, that she felt the cold cut silk billow over her shoulders, and across her chest as she wore an ornamental gown, and when she gave suggestions, they listened to her willfully.

When she gave commands, they followed without a single apprehension.

She wears jean shorts and a billowing white blouse that he hasn’t seen on her before.

To give her as much freedom as he can, they’ll go to the mall and separate to meet back at the food court in a few hours. He gives her money, lets her buy what she wants for clothes and shoes, and he thinks at some point in her life, she would have been delighted by a shopping spree because he can sort of the see the remnants of the old her stirring around behind her wide eyes while she fingers the fabric on an ornate shirt.

But usually all he gets is a quiet ‘thank you’ before she shuffles off, lost in a crowd of people who don’t know what she’s done for them, what’ s been done to her in the name of them.

He’ll sits at a single table in the food court with a medium coffee and a book on coping with child loss, reading it until she comes back.

Today, though, today they go to a hardware store. Big and lofty selling everything from patio furniture and gardening supplies to kitchen appliances and sports gear. They stroll through the outside garden center, taking in the different colors of plants, and she reaches forward to a leafy sprout, pruning the dead leaves from it.

He came here with an intention though, and she lets him take her hand to guide her to the aisle housing the supplies he’s looking for. Sure, if they wanted a weekend activity, they could do the old boy scouts cheap version by slathering peanut butter on a pinecone and rolling it in seeds and then hanging it from one of the trees pruned in their backyard to be a perfect circle—but he wants something special for them.

He wants something to remember their daughter by.

The birdfeeder she picks out is classic. A little wooden platform held up by two walls and covered with a roof. She holds the feeder while they walk to the car as he carried the two huge bags of seeds because he never wants the feeder to be empty.

He never wants to be without birds in their backyard.

By the time they get home it’s starting to get late. It’s not dark yet, but the sun is on a decline as she stands on her tippy toes, hanging the loaded feeder onto the hook he installed on the wall. Something about drilling into the clean, unmarred brick, making holes and scars, made the whole situation a lot more cathartic.

He lets her hang it, and she’s so careful with how she moves her fingers, with how she lifts the chain and supports the structure from the bottom, perching up on her tippy toes and removing her hands from the birdhouse slowly, so it doesn’t sway or jostle—so not a single one of the seeds fall.

Once it’s hung, she stands, her hands clasped lightly against her chest, watching the birdhouse, like she might have watched their daughter take her first steps, or say her first words.

He slowly sidles up beside her, sharing her view of the house full of seeds, ready to nourish and welcome so many birds except the one they couldn’t.

She allows him to slip his arm around her shoulders, feeling the coolness of her skin once again in the summer weather, the soft cotton of her tank top.

He kisses the back of her head, smelling her familiar aroma of shampoo, and the natural perfume of her skin.

“I love you.” Rests his head against hers as she turns towards him, her cool fingers skimming over his cheeks, tracing the bridge of his nose, the wrinkles over his forehead and under his eyes, the dip in his chin and the cracks in his lips. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too.”

The words are truer than ever, he can feel it in the way she holds him back, her breathe against his cheek and the softness of her lips against his neck.

“You’re all I need.”

It’s cliché, but it’s true.

It’s always been true.

“I know, Darling.”

Her hands become more fervent on him, her lips more explorative, and it’s not until his body starts responding until he really notices. The familiar sensation of her fingers raking through his hair, of her hips pushing against his, the taste of her lips and the pressure of her tongue working it’s way into his mouth.

Intimacy, but especially sex, has been an issue with them since moving into together again. They’ve had sex, but it’s always been initiated by him, and allowed by her. Sure, he gets to get off, he comes inside of her while she strokes his back, but when he rolls off her, she doesn’t engage him. Doesn’t hold him. Doesn’t let him touch her in any way sexual or pleasurable. Just puts up with it for him.

But she’s tugging on his earlobe with her teeth, sucking in a way that he didn’t know he missed, didn’t remember what the intimacy felt like.

His hands slip down her body, cupping under her ass and lifting her up against him, and she squeals, releasing a small giggle, that sounds like a church chorus.

The last time he carried her inside a house, she was in the center square in Ver Isca, and he was so afraid of what might happen. He still is, but when he sets her on the bed, pulling that tank top off, littering kisses across the scar on her stomach, until she pushes him away because he’s tickling, all he can think is how they’re finally starting to be okay with each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title borrowed from Shakespeare's Macbeth

**Author's Note:**

> Story title borrowed from Shakespeare's The Phoenix and The Turtle.   
> Chapter title borrowed from Shakespeare's Macbeth


End file.
